


creature comforts are the cure

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 15:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: “Sorry,” Martin whispered. “I’m– I just don’t feel very good, I think.”“You think.” Martin made a muffled noise of agreement, and Jon sighed. “Go back to sleep. Hopefully it passes by morning.”





	creature comforts are the cure

Something was disturbing his rest. It was a hassle to pry his eyes open when all Jon really wanted to do was _sleep,_ but now the knowledge was there and he had to decipher… But, nothing concrete. Just movement. Restless shifting from the opposite side of the bed, and Jon raised his head, ever so slightly, from the pillow to speak. “You having a nightmare…?”

Martin gave a tiny, strangled noise, and then spoke. “N–No. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you–”

The affirmation that it wasn’t another nightmare put that tiny jolt of adrenaline right out of him. He dropped back into the pillows to stifle a yawn. “You’re _squirming._ Stop squirming.”

“Sorry,” Martin whispered. “I’m– I just don’t feel very good, I think.”

“You think.” Martin made a muffled noise of agreement, and Jon sighed. “Go back to sleep. Hopefully it passes by morning.”

“I’ve been _trying.”_ Another shift of movement, and a tiny, pained breath Jon supposed he wasn’t meant to hear. Then Martin’s arm draped around his waist, and he curled around him to press his head to the back of Jon’s shoulder.

There, Jon thought. It was a groggy smile, and an even more uncoordinated move to raise his hand to pat Martin’s. At least he’d gotten him to settle for the time being. Martin liked to fall asleep cuddling. Jon liked it, too. So it was the comfortable press of Martin’s warmth and the clumsy pass of his thumb against Martin’s hand that was already causing him to doze off again. Morning was so far off, and they both needed the sleep.

He was startled back awake some indeterminate amount of time later, a jerk of movement at his side and Martin scrambling from the bed. The blankets had been kicked away. Martin’s bare feet were loud against the hardwood floor, and Jon was already halfway to propelling himself up in muted alarm when the sound of vomiting from the bathroom made him freeze.

And then it made him prop himself the rest of the way up to slide out of bed. The light in the bathroom made his eyes water, and he had to squint at Martin, half curled around the toilet, from the open doorway. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Ngh–” Martin clutched at the porcelain, and sank to his knees. “I said I felt sick,” he whispered, voice so hoarse Jon had to focus to catch the words and– oh.

Right. Martin _had_ said that, and he’d been… so half asleep it hadn’t registered, really. It had, but not like this. “I thought you meant a headache,” Jon started, utterly pathetic, but he was interrupted by Martin being violently ill again and his own, halfhearted excuse died on his tongue. _Damn._

He stepped further into the bathroom. “How long have you been nauseous?”

“Can you–” Martin inhaled softly, and pressed his knuckles against his mouth. “– go, for a minute, _please.”_ His voice cracked, and his throat worked in a hasty swallow.

That was a fair request; Jon wouldn’t have wanted an audience, either. But it still felt a bit… off to agree to leave. He did, anyway. Martin had asked, and Jon had barely closed the door behind him before he heard him vomiting again.

That was… this didn’t bode well. He tried to think. He didn’t think any of the immediate archival staff had been sick, although those things did tend to escape him. Otherwise, any kind of illness did tend to prickle at his uneasiness these days, because of the ever present threat of things not really being just what they seemed anymore.

That asides, he was absolutely terrible at handling illness. Always had been. It was a character flaw.

Still– his nose pulled at the retching beyond the door– if there was something these past few years had taught him, it was that routine and habit were sorely appreciated. He went back to the bedroom to collect his glasses, slipped them on, and headed for the kitchen.

All was quiet when he padded back down the hallway. A good sign, maybe. Jon paused outside the door, and raised his free hand to knock softly. “Martin. I’ve got tea.” He tapped his finger noiselessly against the door, hesitating outside of his own bathroom. “Can I come in?”

“… y–yeah. Sure.”

Still hoarse, but at least he answered without vomiting. Jon nudged the door open and pretended he didn’t pause a little laying eyes on Martin– pale, sweaty, cheeks damp, slumped back against the wall now. “Here, if you can.” He knelt to offer the mug to him.

“Thanks…” Martin gave a sigh, small but shaky. His hands were shaking when he took the tea, too. “That was vile.”

“Yes, probably so.” He sat, crossing his legs on the cold tile. He should have gotten a blanket. Maybe. Another sideways glance at Martin with his sweat damp shirt and closed eyes. Maybe not. “Any idea about this?”

“Not really.” Martin didn’t raise his voice. “It’s, I dunno… flu season, right?” He shivered, hands seizing around the mug. “Or something…”

“Or something,” Jon echoed. He was just repeating the words, feeling them out on his own tongue. Thinking out loud. He didn’t realize how _skeptical_ they sounded until Martin’s eyes flew open again to look at him, confused, and growing alarmed.

“What do you mean??”

“No–” Oh. He _hadn’t_ been projecting a potential supernatural explanation, had he? “That’s not–”

“You think it could be something else??”

 _“No,”_ he said quickly.

“I mean, we haven’t really had– _weird_ statements, lately, right? And it wasn’t like– like _weird_ sickness, I mean I’ve _been_ nauseous–”

“I’m sure it’s just the flu, Martin,” Jon said smoothly. He didn’t want to think about the alternative, either. “You’re going to spill this.” He reached to steady Martin’s mug. “Try to calm down.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Of course. Of course it’s only the flu–” He stiffened, body shifting minutely as though preparing for the worst.

Jon was prepared himself to have to snatch Martin’s mostly full mug back if necessary, but… still leaned back as much as he could while doing so. “Breathe, Martin,” he said, when the moment of uncertainty turned into one of inaction. He brushed his thumb along Martin’s knuckles instead of taking the tea. “I think you’ve impressed upon me the importance of _relaxing,_ haven’t you? Repeatedly.”

Martin huffed a tiny laugh. “Yeah… but you never listen.”

“Don’t aspire to reach my level of dismissiveness, Martin. It barely works for me as it is.” 

At least he was making him laugh, however weak it may have been. It wouldn’t help much in the long run, maybe, but it would take his mind off of it for awhile. At least he could do that much. Sometimes, it still shocked him that he could make someone like _Martin_ smile to begin with.

“Yeah, I know…” The laugh turned into a bit of a sigh again, and Martin slumped against the wall again. “Sorry, don’t think this is how you wanted to spend your night.”

“Compared to some of the things that _could_ happen to us in the middle of the night, this _is_ still relatively low-key.” And when did the world ever give them what they wanted? Their patron was an _eye,_ not a hand. “Besides–”

“– oh, God–”

Shit. “Give me– yeah–” He didn't wince when the tea spilled over onto his fingers, and he didn’t cringe as Martin threw up whatever little tea he’d managed to drink. “Right then, try that again in a moment…”

On the bright side– if it were one– there was probably very little left in Martin’s stomach _for_ him to throw up, from this point on.

“If you think you’re finished,” Jon said eventually, “you should–”

“I should go,” Martin interrupted, scrubbing his mouth. Well, that hadn’t been what he was expecting. “Home,” Martin continued, and struggled to sit up straight.

“What? No.” He might be willing to help him _up,_ but not _out._ “I was saying, you should go back to _bed,_ Martin, not home.”

“Shouldn’t be here if I’ve got stomach flu. You’ll get sick.”

Standing, Jon offered a hand down to him. “I won’t get sick.”

“You _could.”_ Martin squinted up at him.

“We spent all of yesterday evening together, and you kissed me before bed,” he said. It was with a mild kind of exasperation he couldn’t quite shake, but he supposed he deserved Martin being stubborn for all the times _he’d_ been stubborn himself. “I’ve already been exposed.” He extended both hands. “Worry later.”

Maybe Martin didn’t _like_ the idea, but Jon could tell he knew he was right. They’d shared takeaway, even. Martin would have been contagious well before the vomiting had begun. They both knew that. So, Martin heaved a trembling sigh, and scrubbed his palms on his trousers before taking Jon’s hands. “You’re kidding. I worry twenty-four seven, you know…”

He truly had no business clicking his tongue in chastisement, for all the worrying he did on his own. He did his best to keep that amount of worrying to himself, though. And anyway, he was _The Archivist._ It was his job, not Martin’s.

“Hang on a sec…” Martin staggered to the tap. He braced his elbows on the counter and set to splashing some water on his face.

Jon watched uncertainly. Then, “you’re okay by yourself? I’ll get you something to change into.” That was… well, of course Martin wouldn’t want to stay in that sweaty shirt. So that was something he could do.

“Yeah… thanks, Jon…”

“Sure.”

He really, truly did not know how to take care of people. He didn’t even know how to take care of himself. 

He went to grab the first pajama shirt of Martin’s he could find and met back up with him in the hallway. “Here, er… what else do you need, then…? I’m not really… good at this,” he admitted, and Martin smiled, small and pained. Like he expected that. Maybe he did. 

“Nothing, Jon… just gotta let it… run its course, I guess.” He took the shirt, struggling into it as he padded into the bedroom. “You sure you don’t want me on the couch…?”

“If anyone’s going on the couch, it’ll be me. No,” he added, at Martin’s alarmed glance over his shoulder, “I’m not _actually_ going to the sofa. Just get in bed, Martin. Try to rest. Alright?”

“Yeah, okay… um. Actually… maybe get a– a bucket, or something? In case I…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely in a general _vomit_ sort of way.

“Right.” He was almost guaranteed to not have that, or, if he did, it was under the sink with a bunch of junk crammed into it, so he wasn’t doing that, anyway. Not when he was still half asleep himself. A bag in the bin, at least, then. And… “Did you manage _any_ more of the tea?”

“Not… really.” Martin scrunched up his nose, settling back into bed. “Sorry…”

“I’ll get some water. And pain medication,” he added, because Martin was holding himself in a way familiar enough to him. Jon had gone through enough cycles of pain since he’d become Head Archivist to know what it looked like on another person. “Stay awake ‘til I come back.”

“Don’t think I can sleep right now, anyway,” Martin murmured, and rest his arm over his eyes.

“Just relax, then.” Martin gave a dry laugh, and Jon continued, “yes, I know, terrible to do. Give me a moment.”

“Sure…”

Yes, he was absolutely terrible at taking care of other people because he _was_ terrible at taking care of himself. So the best he could do was collect some pills and a fresh glass of water, and ease back into bed after preparing a bin should Martin need it. The extent of his knowledge. He plucked his mobile from the nightstand and leaned back against the pillows.

“… what’re you doing?” Martin asked eventually, turned over onto his side to watch him. “Please don’t tell me you’re working…”

“Just Googling.”

“For what…?”

“Stomach flu treatment.”

“Oh.” Martin gave a teeny sigh. “It’s self-limiting, Jon… it’ll work itself out. Just gotta…” He shifted, and gave a breathy moan. “Rest and… drink stuff.”

“I’ll make you peppermint tea later this morning. If you’ve stopped vomiting as much.”

“Sounds nice…”

“And bland foods. Rice, maybe?”

“Mhm.”

“There really isn’t… much more,” he admitted, scrolling through the page. A focus on hydration and rest. “Except treating a fever with it. Do you feel like you’ve gotten a fever?”

“No, Jon, I…” He shifted over onto his back. Careful movements, and a noticeable look of uneasiness across his face. “I’m okay, just. This is okay. I’m used to suffering through on my own, anyway,” he said ruefully. If that smile was supposed to be reassuring, it was really just sort of pathetic.

“Right.” Jon puts his phone back on the bedside table. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m here if you need me.”

“Worth more than you know,” Martin murmured, and Jon pretended he didn’t look at him overlong since he’d closed his eyes to presumably try and sleep.

Maybe Jon was blessed on the fact that he rarely got sick. _This_ kind of ill, anyway. Maybe his immune system was above par on that regard. Maybe it was the Beholding’s influence, these days. But here was Martin, who apparently was ill enough to have to tough it out on his own _regularly._ Maybe Jon ought not to have been surprised, but… it was sad, honestly.

“Go back to sleep,” he said quietly, and Martin nodded a tiny assent.

In a quickly settled decision of solidarity, Jon took the day off from work. He’d been guilty leaving him while he’d made tea in the night; his alarm accidentally dragging Martin out of the doze he’d settled in and consciousness settling off another bout of vomiting put the brakes on Jon’s intentions to leave him home alone to recuperate. 

Even if he couldn’t do much for him, as Martin tried to convince him of when he’d revealed his plans for the day, he had work he could do from home, and neither of them needed to exert themselves further over the matter.

So, Martin went back to bed, and Jon settled at his desk to catch up on the workload he brought home nightly. Statements recorded the same at his computer desk at home as they did tucked away in his office at work. It was _quieter,_ even, probably. 

Martin stayed asleep. Jon did the absolute bare minimum required– namely, heating up last night's leftover takeaway– and eventually moved to the sofa with the laptop to research further. Simple cases with small follow-ups. Easy homework.

… he wished treating Martin’s illness were easier.

It sounded terrible, even from the other room. Jon cringed, briefly sent up a quick prayer that Martin had at least gotten the bin from the floor in time, and then set aside his laptop to go check on him.

He had; and he was already on his feet, still clutching at it like it was responsible for saving his life and half staggering as he took a step towards the hall. 

Jon moved to intercept him. “Martin. What did we say about resting?”

“No, I–” Martin swallowed, shoulders drawn in as he mostly directed his voice towards the bin. “I’m _tired_ of being in here, I keep waking up and I’m– hot and sweaty and _gross–”_ His voice broke, and Jon couldn't help but take pity.

“The sofa, then?” he asked, steadying him. “A change of scenery? You’ll get away from the radiator that way, too.”

“Yeah, I… thanks,” he muttered. “God, this is _horrible,_ Jon.” He looked up, and somehow had enough energy to bounce back to an earlier thought. Worrying, ceaseless worrying. “I just _really_ shouldn’t be here, I should just–”

“You should just _lie down,”_ Jon interrupted. Probably, helping to guide him a little more stubbornly towards the couch was the only thing keeping Martin from flat out running out the front door. (Well, no. He was being sarcastic, there. Martin wouldn’t be going anywhere like this and they both very well knew it.) “Honestly, Martin, you’re starting to sound _worse_ than I do.”

“Ha… yeah, a bit.” Either he was too tired, or the couch looked too inviting, but Martin dropped the halfhearted argument quickly and sank onto the cushions with a look of utter despondency. “Being sick does things to you,” he mumbled, setting the bin aside.

 _It does,_ but Jon didn’t say. Instead, “I’ll make some more of that tea for you,” and set to busying himself with steeping another cup of peppermint for Martin’s stomach. Not that he was certain it was helping much. He wasn’t sure of much of anything for it, really, but Martin seemed to appreciate it and it would at least wash the taste of vomit out of his mouth, right?

Jon was floundering again. But Martin took the mug when he offered it and curled around it instead of the bin, so… points. He fished through his stack of files for the next one, and Martin didn’t complain when he settled back onto the couch to keep reading.

“Anything… not right?” Martin eventually asked. He’d set the mug back to the table after drinking as much as he’d evidently wanted, and had now settled in to wrap the blanket further around himself again. He was watching Jon read silently, brows drawn together in a tiny furrow of something like fascinated concentration.

That… he really was channeling Jon while sick. It was almost _funny._ They’d been spending too much time together, he thought, and quirked a tiny smile. “They’ve all recorded fine, so I think we’re safe for now.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Just following up on some of them now. Transcript reading.” He rustled the papers. “No need to worry.”

Martin looked away. “I wasn’t worried.”

“Really? I thought you said you worried twenty-four seven?”

“Heh– ow.” Martin shifted and stretched and slumped again, all steady, subtle squirming like had woken Jon up this morning in the first place. “God.” He rubbed at his ribs, and Jon sighed, holding the transcript away.

“Martin, you need to be _resting._ Come on.” He patted his lap. “Be your pillow?”

“I–” Maybe Jon wasn’t in the business of being overly affectionate, but he _did_ know how to be. He had dated Georgie. And he watched TV. It wasn’t like Martin _had_ to look at him quite that way. “… but you’ll–”

“If you’re about to bring up the me getting sick argument _again,_ I assure you that I won’t catch your germs through my _thighs,”_ Jon said impatiently.

Martin’s laugh– noise of protest?– was a little choked, but he tugged the blanket tighter and shifted a little _closer._ “You sure? You can just nudge me off if you want up or, well, whatever.”

“I’m settled in for awhile.” Another tap, three fingers on his knee. “Take a nap in the meantime. I’ll wake you up when I make dinner. Maybe we'll find something that’ll stick with you this time.”

“Yeah, um. Sure, maybe.”

“Martin.”

“Sorry.” Martin, _finally,_ sod him, moved the remaining space between them to put his head in Jon’s lap. Warm and weighted. Comforting. “I’m– I just don’t want to puke on you or something,” he muttered, shifting a bit to get more comfortable. 

Jon dropped his hand into his hair. “You’re not going to throw up. And,” he added, because the morning hadn’t exactly proven much except that Martin very well _might,_ “I trust in your ability to aim the other direction if so.”

One weak laugh, and Martin pressed his hand over his eyes. “God, Jon, don’t– don’t even _joke_ about it. I’d actually die. Just, I’d be done…” he trailed off, breathing out a sigh as he hopefully settled down for the time being.

“We’ll worry about it later.” He scratched lightly at his scalp, pretended he didn’t notice Martin’s little noise from the motion, and settled _himself_ back into his transcript reading. “For now, try to sleep.”

“Right…” He was quiet for a moment, and then continued quietly, “thanks, Jon. Really. For all of it.”

Martin was reaching for the blanket, stuck somewhere beneath his shoulders, so Jon reached to pull it up snug around Martin’s chest. “It’s not a big deal,” he said, and only hesitated a moment before putting his hand back in Martin’s hair. It was something he liked; Martin seemed to be enjoying it, too. Small comforts, Jon guessed, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Go to sleep,” he continued, stern, and Martin’s head inclined in a tiny nod.

“Yeah…” A tiny nod and a tiny smile to match, and Martin rest his hand atop the blanket and kept his eyes closed. “Lemme know if you need anything– er, you know what I mean this time.”

“I know,” Jon said, and Martin smiled, just a little bit more.

**Author's Note:**

> my plan was initially just for Jon to hold Martin's head in his lap and stroke his hair after he got done puking but then it grew feelings and about 3k longer


End file.
